Post by Erik on May 4, 2007 14:26:48 GMT -5
Ok, this is a piece of fiction writing, written under timed conditions in preparation for my GCSE's. I probably spent about 25 minutes on it. (the task is meant to be 35) I'm not sure if it is exactly in answer to the question but I thought I'd put up to see what people think and to answer that question too, to a degree. It's written in a rather tongue-in-cheek manner adn may have references only people familiar with the UK and London, more specifically, will understand. If so, let me know and I'll try and explain.
~
Imagine you are in a queue at a post office or a shop. Describe what you see and hear as you wait to be served.
~
Can they keep me waiting much longer? I mean seriously, I've been here for twenty minutes and this queue isn't getting any shorter. It'd be easier to get into Primark on one of their almost weekly opening or closing sales. It's hot, it's humid and I'm tired, and to top all that the old crone in front of me won't stop moaning about the price of postage stamps and next doors cat. Rivetting.
And that guy behind me, what decade is he living in? I've seen better dressed tramps in Leicester Square Tube station. Maybe he's trying to be punk, but oh my god is he failing - how he is failing. 5' 4" and in his mid-thirties, he looks like he could be an extra in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory; what with that fuorescent green hair and tons of makeup, he'd fit right in as an Oompa Loompa.
The foreign chap at the desk is trying to post a package, though, of course, he doesn't speak a word of English. Desperately, the poor clerk is trying to explain that the monstrosity of a book, ironically the complete nine volumes of the Oxford Dictionary, costs more to deliver and is now flapping his arms like some kind of deranged chicken and yelping in an elevated tone as we Brits so often seem to think actually helps matters. After a further ten minutes and a decidedly uneventful and mundane wait the now aggravated and worn out gentleman finally comes to serve me. Meeting my gaze, we share a wry knowing grin before completing my long and tedious transaction. The said transaction - buying half a dozen second class postage stamps. I kid you not.
~
Imagine you are in a queue at a post office or a shop. Describe what you see and hear as you wait to be served.
~
Can they keep me waiting much longer? I mean seriously, I've been here for twenty minutes and this queue isn't getting any shorter. It'd be easier to get into Primark on one of their almost weekly opening or closing sales. It's hot, it's humid and I'm tired, and to top all that the old crone in front of me won't stop moaning about the price of postage stamps and next doors cat. Rivetting.
And that guy behind me, what decade is he living in? I've seen better dressed tramps in Leicester Square Tube station. Maybe he's trying to be punk, but oh my god is he failing - how he is failing. 5' 4" and in his mid-thirties, he looks like he could be an extra in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory; what with that fuorescent green hair and tons of makeup, he'd fit right in as an Oompa Loompa.
The foreign chap at the desk is trying to post a package, though, of course, he doesn't speak a word of English. Desperately, the poor clerk is trying to explain that the monstrosity of a book, ironically the complete nine volumes of the Oxford Dictionary, costs more to deliver and is now flapping his arms like some kind of deranged chicken and yelping in an elevated tone as we Brits so often seem to think actually helps matters. After a further ten minutes and a decidedly uneventful and mundane wait the now aggravated and worn out gentleman finally comes to serve me. Meeting my gaze, we share a wry knowing grin before completing my long and tedious transaction. The said transaction - buying half a dozen second class postage stamps. I kid you not.